


College Boy

by Ezlebe



Category: Justified
Genre: Gen, Hostage Situations, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 11:49:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3208109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ezlebe/pseuds/Ezlebe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He's lying," Raylan speaks up, his odd tone more than anything drawing Mullen and Boyd's attention. His jaw shifts slightly, molars grinding and tense under the sudden scrutiny, or maybe something else. "He just didn't go because he's a goddamn idiot."</p>
            </blockquote>





	College Boy

"Now, you always come in here talking big, pissing off Raylan," Mullen says, getting in real close, his fist wound up tight on the glass table. "And clearly with some considerable intelligence behind that giant forehead."

Boyd rolls his eyes at this, making eye-contact with an amused Raylan across the table.

"So why didn't you just head to college, son, maybe resolve this little impasse twenty years ahead and save me the trouble of ever listening to your horseshit?" Mullen finishes sharply, drawing Boyd’s attention back with a hard smack on the table.

"Well, Deputy Mullen, maybe I just never saw myself a college boy," Boyd says, giving him a sharp smirk. "Just not the type, not enough... Scholarly freedom."

"Can't say I'm too surprised," Mullen responds, shaking his head slowly, "Just real disappointed."

"He's lying," Raylan speaks up, his odd tone more than anything drawing Mullen and Boyd's attention. His jaw shifts slightly, molars grinding and tense under the sudden scrutiny, or maybe something else. "He just didn't go because he's a goddamn idiot."

Boyd swallows his surprise as he lifts a placating hand. “Now, Raylan – “

"I hope you learned since then, that if you want to hide something, Boyd," Raylan interrupts, standing and shoving away so hard that he near upends a coffee cup on the far end of the table. "You don't stuff it under the goddamn seat cushions in your truck."

Boyd raises his eyebrows, the words sticking in his throat as Raylan throws open the glass door so hard upon his exit that it smacks against the connecting wall. The resulting noise is sharp enough to echo across the room, sinking into the wall and somehow amplifying the silence left behind.

"Well," Mullen says after a moment, straightening up and walking toward the wall. They both watch Raylan shift some papers around, and then stalk toward the exit with nothing. "I did not expect that to be what set him off; how about you, Crowder?"

"I had not an inkling," Boyd mutters, pressing his tongue into the back of his teeth and feeling the sharp edge. "Might I leave, now that Raylan's had himself his usual hissy fit?"

Mullen turns with a hum, putting both hands on his hips and eyeing Boyd for a long moment. "Just one more question, before I'm forced by law to let you go.”

Boyd raises an eyebrow, spreading his hands welcomingly.

"When your file first crossed my desk, and that temperamental man there told me you two just once worked together, not even buddies…" Art taps the table again, though his knuckles sound less like they're trying to crack the surface this go round. "Was he lying?"

Boyd closes his hands and stands with a shrug, shaking his head. "If that is what he said, then that is what we were."

"Uh huh, sure," Mullen says dryly, clicking his tongue. "Now get out of here, and try not to get shot. I don't feel like dealing with that shit today."

"A pleasure as always, Deputy," Boyd mutters, slipping out the door silently as if to make up for Raylan's exuberance. He ends up sharing a suspicious look with Brooks on the way out to the elevator, and reluctantly pauses when she coughs just slightly, in that puffed up way the Marshals seem to train into their people.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, turning on his heel with a sharp smile.

"He's in the cafe across the street," Brooks says casually, pointing with a pen in the direction of the window.

Boyd leans back, nonchalantly sticking both hands in his coat pockets. "And why is that any concern of mine?"

"Aside from the fact he brought you in?" Brooks asks, raising her brows with a sarcastic glint in her eye.

"And, since we'd rather not have the Marshals’ reputation wrecked at the cheapest coffee place," Gutterson speaks up, elbow propped up on the glass partition to Raylan's desk, "Don’t get shot buying a latte, or at the very least do it outside."

"I will try my duly best to leave this city without any holes," Boyd says, just a hair too loud, glancing back at Mullen’s open door. "As per my usual convention."

"Shit happens, man,” Gutterson says, slipping back into his chair as Brooks hums her agreement.

~

Boyd steps out of the courthouse slowly, hands still hidden in his pockets as he descends the stairs, and pauses to glance both ways across the street. He sees two cafes within easy walking distance, a sandwich shop, and some sort of bookshop, but no outward sign from any of them that might indicate Raylan darkening their door. He reaches up and rubs at his brow, optimistically heading toward the parked Town Car in the unlikely case that Raylan left it unlocked. As expected, the doors do not move a single bit, though thankfully neither does the alarm begin to blare.

(The very last thing he needs is Raylan spitefully refusing to bail him out of lockup for a mistaken case of attempted grand theft auto.)

He sighs, leaning against the car and glancing back down the street, then feels something obvious shifting into place now that he sees it a second time. He looks up at the courthouse, determining the Marshal’s office and its accompanying window, and quickly finds, with some measure of relief, that one of the cafes sits near directly below it.

The establishment’s outer façade is not particularly kitschy, or even very friendly, at least not in comparison to the place three doors down. The inside is similarly unwelcoming, consisting mostly of cheap, old vinyl chairs and lacquered plywood tables. It reminds him some of the bar, if he had put a little less work into making it seem legitimate.

It doesn't take but a moment to find Raylan sulking in the corner booth, his hat practically a beacon from where it sits on the table. Boyd stares at him for a moment before he turns on his heel, electing to order out of politeness in the likely event that Raylan refuses to communicate for a lengthy amount of time.

The wall behind the counter is covered in haphazard sheets of colored paper with pasted-on names, all spun around a large center board of about fifteen specialty drinks and their prices. He sighs and picks one at random, quickening his descent into a fight he had been under the impression he'd avoided twenty years ago.  

He stares down the cashier when they attempt to up-sell some sort of pastry, and points toward Raylan when asked if he’s taking it to go. It earns him a surprised, vaguely wary look, and it’s not difficult to imagine that Raylan may have already soiled the good name of the Marshals in this institution long ago.

After they take Boyd's money and assure, in a needlessly cheery regard, that the drink will be brought over right away, he ends up hesitating for an anxious moment before turning and making his winding way through the half-filled tables. Raylan doesn't even look up when Boyd slips into the opposite chair, to all appearances engaged fully in something on his phone. If it weren't for the way his fingers twitched, Boyd might've almost believed it.

“Raylan,” Boyd greets, leaning back in the chair and setting his foot against the table leg.

“Boyd,” Raylan says, expression petulant as he shifts up straight in his chair. “Why the hell are you here?”

“It came to my attention that you actually carted me up to this godforsaken city, least you could do is drive me back,” Boyd says agreeably, glancing back toward the counter as what he can only assume is his coffee begins its journey over. It’s in a much larger mug than he had expected.

“Get a cab, maybe call up one of your thugs,” Raylan suggests stiffly, molars grinding if judging by the flex in his cheek. “Your options ain't exactly limited.”

“Well no, Raylan, but I feel I might take this opportunity to clear up an issue that has to all appearances been eating at you for quite some time,” Boyd  says, tipping his head as he returns Raylan's attempt at a stare down.

The footsteps grow louder, and he moves his napkin neatly under the mug as the barista sets it down. “Thank you, darlin’.”

Raylan loses some of the freezer burn as he glances down at the new arrival, raising an eyebrow.

“I'm sorry, did you need a refill?” Boyd asks, lifting one of his hands and gesturing back at the counter. “I may be feeling generous, if so.”

“I've got more than enough left, thanks,” Raylan says dryly, leaning up and looking into the mug. “What the hell you order?”

“I believe the name was something vaguely –“

“Bloody Harlan,” Raylan interrupts, leaning back into his seat and fixing himself with an irritatingly satisfied smirk.

Boyd narrows his eyes, “I wasn’t aware your Marshal abilities were so capable there, Raylan.”

 “You're just that predictable, Boyd,” Raylan says, and gestures at the mug once more. “The fact it's pumped so full of raspberry syrup it could give a rock diabetes doesn’t hide any better.”

“And I believe four shots of espresso,” Boyd confirms, turning the mug so the handle fits neatly in his fingers. “If this is your attempt at diversion, I am very disappointed.”  

“I don't see what there is to divert,” Raylan mutters, after about forty-five seconds of quiet glaring at the tabletop.

“Near everyone in that office knows that's a lie by now, the way you lit out,” Boyd says, sipping from his drink with a wince at the taste, some mix of bitterness and a sharp, almost burning sweetness. “I hadn't known you found those acceptance letters, Raylan, they weren't under there long.”

“Long enough,” Raylan mutters, eyes now downcast as his mouth twists into a frown.

“This does explain a rather awkward few months,” Boyd says thoughtfully, jerkily spinning his mug with tense fingers.

“You mean the substantial anger I had at the discovery that the smartest guy in our graduating class threw away his entire fucking life because I couldn't get a baseball scholarship?” Raylan asks, his temper flaring up as he leans forward on the table all conspiratorial. “Does that explain the _awkward_?”

“Rather generous of you to take all the credit. Should I alert your Chief Deputy that you'll be serving any sentences I may be earning in this here future?” Boyd says sharply, shifting to mirror Raylan's position. “Or maybe, you should just get over me making my choices, just like I got over you making yours.”

“It's not the same fucking thing,” Raylan practically snarls, his hand coming down hard on the tabletop.

“Now, now,” Boyd says, lifting his coffee as the surface ripples dangerously. “I was sent here with explicit instructions that you not ruin the Marshal’s fine reputation with this coffee house.”

Raylan huffs, taking a deep breath and rolling his eyes as he visibly attempts to cool off. “They hate us here, Boyd, that drink you got is probably poisoned.”

“Certainly tastes like it,” Boyd acknowledges, pointedly taking another sip. “Wouldn't be surprised, by the name.”

“I'm sure they thought it was funny,” Raylan murmurs, tilting his head almost amicably in comparison to the last few moments. “Though I'm not sure you'll react all well to that caffeine.”

“You do remember the oddest things about me, Raylan,” Boyd says, shaking his head just slightly.

Raylan shrugs and taps the rim of his own mug, the ring on his finger clinking softly against the ceramic. “Not too difficult to remember avoiding something that ratchets you up from a slow talking asshole to a fast one.”

“Now that's just plain unfriendly,” Boyd says, lowering his eyes and affecting a wounded tone.

Raylan tips his head, unashamed, and then fixes his eyes somewhere passed Boyd’s head, his expression slowly falling blank. It's something familiar, though he's not done it often with Boyd, usually facing him eye for eye while yelling about one thing or another, but it seems he's actually so uncomfortable at his little faux pas in the courthouse that he's adopted that old method of zoning so far out of his head that he can wait out the emotion.

“Raylan?” Boyd's never been quite sure how effective this was with Arlo or anyone else, but he knows how well it ever worked with him, which wasn't very. “Raylan. _Raylan_.”

“Damn it, Boyd, just go home,” Raylan says, mouth twisting as his eyes clear up and he starts to glare.

“Again, Raylan, you dragged me along on this here little venture,” Boyd says, sighing deeply and once more leaning back in his chair. He huffs into his drink, “The least you could do is get over yourself.”

Raylan narrows his eyes, shifting his hat to the side as he huddles closer. “What was that? I could've sworn I just heard you talking like a normal person.”

Boyd lets go of the cup with a sigh, then tips his chair back on two legs and slips his hands into his pockets. He levels Raylan with a stare, tilting his chin up.

Raylan narrows his eyes back, “What?”

“Well, as the resident authority, what exactly should I have done with my life, Raylan?” Boyd asks, letting a bit of a sarcastic smile crack through his expression. “What fantasy lies in the depths of that steel trap?”

Raylan shakes his head, running a hand through his hair as he closes his eyes for a quiet moment.

“Now, don't tell you me never thought about it?” Boyd prompts, raising his eyebrows. “I don't believe anyone could be so piqued without putting in some considerable thought.”

“When?” Raylan asks, exhaling with a harsh scoff. “When I first found them, or after I left?  Or how about when I come back to this godforsaken county to find you living out of a dilapidated church, playing dictator and manipulating idiots into robbing banks?”

“I don't know, Raylan; if it's too difficult a question to answer, how about we talk about you,” Boyd suggests, leaning back even further and spreading his hands.

Raylan frowns, clearly getting suspicious. “Boyd.”

“Because if my memory serves right, there is at least one soul that would be absent this very room had I accepted even a one of those offers,” Boyd says, letting his chair fall evenly on the floor with a loud crack that makes no less than every one of the three other patrons, and Raylan, grimace in irritation. “Now, I don't know about you, Raylan, but my decision paid off rather in full after that day in the mine, even in spite of our lives not ending quite the way I would have chosen.”

Raylan levels him with that stare, the one that's doubtlessly scared the living hell out of more than one felon, but has always done something like the opposite for Boyd.

“Maybe you're right, it is about me,” Raylan says, tilting his head, voice falling into a deceivingly friendly tone. “Because how much longer did I stay in Harlan because of you, that I wouldn't follow you to fucking Rice or Duke or even just goddamn UK.”

“Raylan,” Boyd sighs, reaching forward to slip his fingers through the cup handle and pull it closer, giving him something to do with his hands that isn't strangling. Admittedly, Raylan isn't the only one who views their past with something like rose colored glasses, but this is something else.

Raylan leans forward on the table. “See, it started out as bitterness at myself, but like most things, it eventually just wound right back to you.”

“How flattering,” Boyd mutters, taking another sip of his coffee. It's objectively of an agreeable taste, for coffee, but something about the spirit of the conversation has it registering as particularly acrid.

“And I admit to thinking about it, alright, you got me,” Raylan says, picking up his own cup and taking a large gulp that causes a pinched grimace. “But there’re so many fucking directions it could have taken, that I'm just pissed about it on a whole rather than trying for particulars.”

Boyd acknowledges that with a reluctant tilt of his head, but doesn't admit to thinking along the same line once or twice, though maybe not with the same motivation. He would much rather commiserate weakness to such depressing frivolity in the privacy of his own bar, maybe with something that’s liable to put him to sleep in the end and make him forget he ever did it.

“Say, for example,” Raylan continues, much to Boyd’s surprise, turning stiffly in his chair and causing the legs to scrape the floor. “That you accepted that offer to Cornell and fuck off up to the north, so maybe I get so goddamned miserable that I up and join the Army; then you're probably not a criminal, maybe a lawyer – though that's sort of the same – and I'm exactly where I am right now. Everyone wins, and I'm not forced to throw you in jail twice a week.”

Boyd reaches up and taps at his chin with a knuckle, leaning back in his chair with consideration. “First of, you've not put me in jail more than three times, and secondly, your first little argument fell apart right off the gate there, Raylan.”

Raylan groans, rubbing at his brow with two fingers before he gestures slightly off to the side while looking all sorts of reluctant. “I was going for the more realistic one.”

“So you'll agree now, I did the right thing,” Boyd says, looking over the rim of his mug and raising his eyebrows.

“I don't know for certain, alright,” Raylan admits, looking particularly surly about it and scowling at his coffee. “But I do know one thing, and it's that you hardly ever do the right thing, even when you think you are.”

“Well, I'm not sure that'll hold up in court, but you go ahead and bring it up anyway,” Boyd says, looking down at his still mostly full mug, tipping it back and forth so as to distort the little foam leaf even more. “Not everything I do is because of you, Raylan.”

“True, most of it’s because of you,” Raylan agrees sarcastically, taking a slow breath. “And I know that; I don't know why I still give a shit.”

Boyd shakes his head once with a tight smile, “You have always appreciated an outlet for your shame.”

“Fuck off,” Raylan says, leaning back in his chair and a tic developing in his cheek. “You know that wasn't why I left.”

“I do,” Boyd agrees, nodding slowly a few times as he taps at the table. “I meant was you being unable to leave town on your own until you felt truly forced.”

Raylan raises his eyebrows and winces slightly, then glances just passed Boyd and toward the door.

“But if you’d feel more comfortable shifting our conversation to that particular aspect of your problem with me, go ahead,” Boyd says, gesturing openly, and completely aware his voice is going lower. “Because I have tried my absolute hardest not to hate you for that, but if you keep talking, I will probably start.”

Raylan's eyes turn back to him, carrying an odd expression. “Boyd, I assure you, that has no part in my problem with you.”

“Forgive me if I find that hard to believe,” Boyd says quietly, letting his drink settle against the table. He narrows his eyes as Raylan’s gaze flicks back to the door, “I'm sorry, Raylan, am I boring you?

“I – Boyd, I'm going to be honest: I will always be pissed about you not taking those scholarships, and while I'm not certain I’d have trailed after you like the sad puppy dog I was at seventeen, I like to think I would, because as you put it, I have a problem with you,” Raylan says, his eyes somewhere passes Boyd's shoulder the entire time he speaks his piece.

Boyd nods at the words, tilting his head and running his teeth over his lower lip. “While I appreciate the sentiment, Raylan, I’d prefer you look me in the eye while you say it. Elsewhile, it doesn't seem particularly meaningful.”

Raylan's jaw tightens, his expression oddly out of place to the conversation and his eyes filled with their old exasperation as he finally turns to Boyd. “You wouldn't be hiding a gun somewhere in those ridiculous jeans?”

Boyd opens his mouth in the ensuing confusion that shifts itself to the forefront of his mind. He furrows his brow, “Is that some sort of ill-advised innuendo?”

“Jesus Christ, Boyd,” Raylan says, starting to glare. “This is not the time.”

“Well I didn't think so either,” Boyd defends, lifting his hands a few inches as a gesture. He gets an odd feeling the next instant, an indescribable itching in the back of his head, mental more so than physical. He closes his eyes for a moment, dropping his hands back to the table and huffing a short laugh. “There's some shit going on behind me.”

“That there is,” Raylan agrees with a short nod, and a small, restrained grimace toying at his mouth. “The shit storm seems to follow us around.”

“I pegged this little establishment as a den of iniquity the moment I stepped in,” Boyd says quietly, barely restraining the scowl he feels growing at the corner of his mouth. “Right across from your courthouse, too.”

“But they do have cheap coffee,” Raylan points out optimistically. “Though it would be nice to have a conversation without –“

A shot rings out loud, punctuated by muted screaming from the back room.

“To answer your earlier question,” Boyd says tersely, staring hard at Raylan. “You forced me to leave it in the car, Marshal.”

Raylan tips his head, eyes still somewhere passed his shoulder. “Seemed a good idea at the time.”

“Should've known right away it was a bad one, then,” Boyd says dryly, listening to the crash of various dishware in the back and the heavy footfalls of someone bursting through the kitchen door.

“Get over here,” Raylan hisses, gesturing with his chin toward the chair to his left; the one nearest the wall.

Boyd grimaces and shifts over as quick as he can, near tripping on a chair leg and having to suffer a steadying hand on his shoulder from Raylan.

“Alright folks, we ain't gonna have trouble now,” the man says, pointing his sawed off at the other two filled tables one after another, then pausing slightly at their table. “Did you just move?”

“I don't take kindly to having my back to a man with a gun, is all,” Boyd says, affecting a lazy tone and giving close mouthed smile.

Raylan glances at him sharply, an attempt at a rebuke, and a mutter of, “Shouldn’t have sat with your back to the door.”

“No talking,” the man says with a snarl, waving the gun again. “Only listening.”

He goes over to the other tables and snatches their phones, indelicately throwing them behind the counter.

Another man emerges from the back about thirty seconds later, the mousier barista shifting along just visible behind the door as it closes, her demeanor decidedly changed with her hands clasped tightly to a small derringer at her front. Boyd glances across the counter and sees the barely visible head of the other, cowering and just as under threat as the rest of the place. He looks to Raylan quickly and sees him nod; seems there had been a third that Boyd hadn't the pleasure of meeting.

The second man steps in alongside the first, his hands considerably emptier as he gestures around the room. “We got some shit need taken care of for a few minutes, but as long as everyone minds their business, we ain't gonna take issue with anyone, and none you gonna get hurt.”

The first leans over and whispers something, tipping his sawed off in their direction. The second immediately looks over, right at Raylan, and Boyd feels like rolling his eyes as a pistol appears and the man walks over with it drawn directly at Raylan's center of mass.

“Well, fuck,” Raylan mutters, expression turning a mix of tense and sulky.

“Alright, Mister Marshal,” he says, tipping the pistol in the direction of Raylan's piece. “Gonna need you to de-arm yourself right quick.”

Raylan doesn't move, his hands staying firmly on the table, with a stare like he wouldn't mind being there all day.

“Now, we both know with you being Mister Quick Draw McGraw, that you might get me, but Trev will shred your boy, and Mandy will get you,” the man says with a smug tilt of his head and another pointed glance. “Now give me your guns.”

Raylan grinds his jaw a moment before his hands start to move, unclipping his pistol and setting it on the floor, kicking it gently with his boot.

The man looks down at it with a raised eyebrow, saying dryly, “And your backup, Marshal.”

“I don't have it,” Raylan says slowly, grimacing with exaggerated discomfort. He then raises his hands and stands slowly, and Boyd watches as Mister Trev twitches slightly in their direction.

Raylan lifts his jacket and steps around in a tight circle. “You're free to check more thoroughly.”

The man snorts slightly and does just that, roughly pressing down on both sides of Raylan from shoulder to leg with one hand. He comes back satisfied, holding a phone, and sends a distrustful look at Raylan.

“Mikey,” Trev says gruffly, “Check the prissy one.”

Boyd blinks slowly in irritation, ignoring Raylan's newly raised eyebrows and badly restrained smirk. “I am terribly sorry, but what in the hell did you just call me?”

“Stand the fuck up,” Mikey says, all pretense of friendly gone. “You don't look a cop, but that don't mean you’re not holding.”

Boyd tightens his jaw and stands, lifting his hands and walking a ways outside the table. He grimaces as Mikey takes his phone and roughly pats him down, glaring at Raylan all the while until he's shoved back to the chair.

“Trev, get the sign and lock the doors,” Mikey says, turning back to the kitchen as he throws their phones on the counter. “If the Marshal tries anything stupid, shoot his boyfriend. Call me when the cops finally roll up.”

Trev rolls his eyes widely with a huff, but does as ordered, starting with the doors and clicking off the open sign. When he's done, he jumps onto the counter and gestures to the entire room with his rifle, “You may now speak, but I will be listening quite intently.”

Boyd takes this as opportunity to look at Raylan, tightening his jaw.

“Don't look at me,” Raylan mutters with a straight face, staring intently at the kitchen door. “It's not my fault everyone wants to shoot you.”

“Well, I've not been on the news so often as you, so I'm gonna have to disagree there, cowboy,” Boyd says with a sneer, leaning in on one elbow. “And you made me leave my goddamn gun in the car.”

Raylan scoffs lightly, eyes going dark, though his gaze doesn't break from the door. “There are metal detectors at the entrance, as you well know.”

“A trip through which led to no more than forcing me to find this place unaided and unarmed after you storm out of that building, then buying coffee I don't fucking like, and now being threatened by a couple of assholes who decided that you'd even give a shit if I fell over dead,” Boyd says in a quiet, carefully enunciated rush, tapping the table with three fingers by the end. “You are a selfish asshole, Raylan Givens.”

Raylan tips his head, tapping the surface of the table almost nervously. “I was thinking along somewhat similar lines: that just the tiniest hint of my younger, more amorous intentions toward you spontaneously incited a hostage situation.”

“Well, I'll admit that's funny,” Boyd says sarcastically, leaning back into his chair and glancing sideways at Trev, who is kicking at the tune of some unheard drum. The cabinets on the other side of the counter vibrate quietly with each impact, and Boyd can feel himself losing control with each dull beat.

“What would you have majored in?” Raylan asks quietly, shifting in his chair to lean further back. “English, maybe law?”

Boyd draws himself away from counting each ugly noise to stare hard at the side of Raylan's head, hardly believing his own ears. “I don't rightly know, Raylan, that was part of the problem.”

“Something you could talk people to death with,” Raylan says with a small nod, voice pitching quiet like he's talking only to himself. “Probably still end up a criminal, but at least you'd have a seat in Washington.”           

“There is no greater sorrow than to recall our times of joy in wretchedness,” Boyd mutters under his breath, only feeling slightly disappointed when Raylan does little more than give him a quick, curious look. “Where are you in these tall tales?”

Raylan shrugs, the visible corner of his mouth slanting down sideways.

“You got a real need to improve your fantasy life, Raylan,” Boyd says with a sneer, shifting to sit closer to the window. He peeks out, but sees no more than garbage in the alley. “I don't think close friend has been a legitimate cover since the seventies.”

“I haven't thought much where I’d be since the mine, to be honest,” Raylan says, tense all over, and Boyd gets the feeling it has only part to do with the hostage situation. “I like being a Marshal.”

Boyd hums with satisfaction as realization perks up and settles in the back of his mind. He then leans further onto the table, picking up Raylan's hat just to watch the man twitch. “So long as I'm not wearing the black hat to your white, and nowhere near Harlan - I could be a goddamn milkman.”

“It all comes back to you,” Raylan repeats under his breath, reaching out with an open hand for his hat. “You forget how to listen?”

Boyd huffs quietly, handing over the hat, and turns away only to inadvertently catch the eye of the woman three tables down. She looks away quickly, breathing heavily at the wood of her table, hands shaking slightly where they hover over the tabletop. He glances over her and at the street as he takes another drink of his cold coffee. He's only got about quarter way to go before he's done, and with the price of it, he'll be glad of drinking it all despite the circumstances.

Raylan eventually glances over to him with a puzzled expression, making eye contact before he looks down to the mug. "Is that near gone?"

“I’d decline another, if that's what you're asking,” Boyd says, tipping the mug in Raylan’s direction cup with a grimace. “Its memory will serve as a marker to wait at the car, next time, maybe even key my initials into the door.”

Raylan rolls his eyes, turning back to the unchanged door. “You're acting real twitchy, is all.”

“I've got a gun pointed at me,” Boyd points out sharply, shifting in his chair with a subtle glance toward Trev. “Usually when this shit happens, at least I know why.”

“I'll give you that,” Raylan mutters, taking a deep breath. “You tend to manipulate me into handling it for you.”

“You're just so good at it,” Boyd admits, taking the last, bitter swig of his coffee. “Wouldn't want to hold that sort of talent back.”

Raylan shakes his head, scoffing lightly, “God forbid.”

Trev makes a loud grunt, jumping off the counter and walking around to the front door, glancing through the glass with a narrow eye before he starts winding through the tables. He taps each one with the stock of the rifle, startling the couple in the corner to start clutching at each other and eliciting a quiet shriek out of the lone woman. Boyd kicks out and taps Raylan's chair with his toe, leading Raylan to give him a warning look as Trev reaches them.

“Aren’t you two little chatterboxes,” Trev says, slamming his gun down on the table as he grabs a chair and sits down on the seat backward. He points at Raylan, “See, I nailed you as someone who'd be calm under pressure.”

Raylan glances at Trev, eyes narrow with suspicion.

“But your buddy here doesn't seem even a little frightened,” Trev says, gesturing at Boyd with a exaggerated look of bewilderment. “Just real pissed off.”

“He's got control issues,” Raylan says slowly, tapping the table lightly. “Bit someone once.”

Trev raises his eyebrows, “With those teeth?”

“I was eight,” Boyd says, resisting the urge to bare said teeth in a false smile. “I use very different methods these days.”

Trev barely glances over, which irritates Boyd even more, and he taps Raylan's chair again. Raylan lifts his hand just slightly, a small signal, but it's enough to get Boyd waiting again despite his better judgement.

“See, that's reason we’re here really,” Raylan says, leaning in quiet and conspiratorial. He taps the table again, and Boyd has the belated realization that it's been in the exact same spot every goddamned time. “The man never really learned that if he can't take the door, he should look for a window.”

“Ah, trouble in paradise,” Trev suggests, a mean smirk toying at his lips.

“Something like,” Raylan agrees, leaning back again.

Boyd reaches up and rubs his forehead, leaning against the table like he's irritated with Raylan, and sneaks his other hand under the table. Raylan glances at him quickly, just as he manages to grasp the stock, and Boyd takes a harsh breath as he leans back, slipping the gun up between his knees. “Well, at least I knew better than to run away from my problems.”

“I didn't run away from shit,” Raylan sneers back, raising three fingers near imperceptibly as he turns to regard Boyd fully. “I bettered myself so I could come back better prepared to arrest those problems.”

“You don't arrest people, you just shoot them,” Boyd says lowly, curling his fingers around the pistol as Raylan's fingers go to two. “Or tell them how they should've lived. Or God forbid, both.”

“If you had gone to school, we wouldn't be stuck having this goddamned conversation,” Raylan says loudly, and then there's just one finger hovering. “And no one would ever got shot.”

“Except yourself,” Boyd says bitterly, perhaps revealing a bit too much by the way Raylan’s brow starts to furrow.

“Boys, come on now,” Trev interrupts, lifting a hand and pointing between the two of them. “Is this really how you want to spend your last few minutes together.”

The last finger finally drops and Boyd turns to Trev with a sneer, almost as if to answer, then pulls and shoots right through the man's stupid smirk before he can make another goddamn couple comment.

The lone woman lets out a strangled scream, soon muffled by her own hand as she stares at Trev’s body in horror, and the couple doesn't even bother to hush their cries, both starting now to sob. Raylan makes a face like he wants to try and calm them but then thought better of it, and grabs the shotgun just as Mikey and Mandy burst through the door. They're both covered in what Boyd assumes is flour, and just as Boyd raises the pistol a second time, Mikey is on the ground and missing half his skull as a window busts out and an alarm goes off just above their table.

“What the hell?” Boyd hisses as he crouches behind the table, looking to Raylan, who is wearing an expression that's caught between shocked and annoyed. They both peak between the table legs to where Mandy is hiding behind the counter, staring at the window and then diving back into the kitchen when she notices their attention.

“I guess you can take back all those mean things you thought about the Marshals,” Raylan says with a breathy laugh, just as Rachel bursts in the door with her gun drawn and two LPD officers behind her.

Rachel lifts a hand to her ear with a sigh, and her expression goes irritated. “Raylan, Boyd,” she greets quietly, nodding for them to stand. “Couple uniforms got her running out the back.”

The uniforms calmly escort the hysterical couple out and the shaking woman, giving them all those blankets Boyd never seems privy to despite his multiple encounters with paramedics at this point in life. He adds it to his list of Raylan related grievances, which he may or may not bring up on that long car ride home.

“You gonna explain at all why your people waited so long,” Boyd asks sharply, shoving the gun into the back of his belt before anyone can make him give it back. “I’d have been elated to be freed from this hell the moment it started.”

“We put up a radar listener and Tim just wanted so badly to see how far you two got in your little talk,” Rachel says sweetly, tipping her head coquettishly as she turns toward the kitchen. “Also, they were constructing some sort of IED in here to set off as distraction to get away with the gold.”

“Were they now,” Boyd says slowly, glancing passed Rachel and toward the blood spattered door. “Bombs and gold, that's certainly an interesting angle.”

“Boyd,” Raylan snaps, though it is curiously absent any sort of true harshness. “Absolutely not.”

“Thankfully, it was not finished,” Rachel says slowly, giving them both hard looks and stepping aside for the LPD to take pictures. “We were going to have the bomb squad handle it, but they're still three minutes out and will probably be pissed we compromised the scene.”

“Exactly how long did you have that listener up,” Raylan asks suspiciously, eyes narrowing. “Because if it sounds even a little like it was longer than when these budding gold buyers walked in, I’m going to be pretty damn irritated.”

Rachel for her part looks unconcerned, rolling her eyes toward the door where the bomb squad seems to have arrived. “You two really aren't the center of the universe, you know that right?”

Raylan doesn't look particularly comforted, his mouth twisting into a grimace. “Be that as it may, I also know how the office feels about gossip.”

~

“You returning my backup anytime soon?” Raylan asks as they slow to a stop at his Town Car, then turns to lean against the door. The brim of his hat casts a shadow down half his face in the fading light of the sun. “Can't risk you using it in a murder.”

Boyd hums in consideration, glancing over and catching Raylan’s unamused look. He then shifts lightly on his feet, reaching for the gun, and turns quickly on his heel to bring the muzzle up tight near Raylan’s jaw.  His other hand settles right over the one that Raylan has up next to his holster.

“Boyd, what the fuck,” Raylan says softly, his eyes narrowing as he glances down once before glaring at Boyd. His breath gets shorter, but otherwise he seems largely unaffected, and doesn't even try to throw Boyd off. “You decide now to shoot me?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Boyd says with another contemplative hum. He slides the muzzle up along Raylan's jaw and under his chin. “You did tell a complete stranger about that time I bit Johnny.”

“I was under considerable duress,” Raylan says, and his tone goes low as he shifts his feet, getting closer. “How long you think to keep this up before someone notices?”

Boyd tips his head in a mockery of thought, relaxing his grip just as he leans up, catching Raylan by surprise as he tilts his head and catches his lips for a spare moment. He tips back on his heels as Raylan gasps quietly, then flips the gun upside down by its trigger guard and holds it up.

Raylan takes the gun as he smacks his lips quietly, giving Boyd a narrow exasperated look. “I dearly hope Tim doesn't have his scope out.”

“You're not even a little surprised?” Boyd asks, feigning disappointment as he leans back, running a knuckle down the seam of Raylan’s jacket.

Raylan shrugs, stepping away and reaching toward the driver door. “Should I recall the uncomfortable conversation about our failed relationship, or the life or death experience?”

Boyd clicks his tongue, frowning some as he shifts sideways to give Raylan room to get in the car. “I do so hate to be predictable.”

A hand swings up over the door edge and grabs Boyd’s lapel. Raylan leans forward over the door, eyes narrow and jaw ticking almost threateningly, then abruptly shifts the hand up behind Boyd's neck to pull in and kiss him hard, letting go after a few seconds and just the tiniest hint of tongue.   

Boyd licks his lips slowly, and tips his head as he looks Raylan straight in the eye. “Well, I guess you win this round.”

**Author's Note:**

> I was dearly tempted to tag this as an alternate universe, as I am with every other fic I am currently writing with these people since I doubt any happiness is ever in store for any of them. (AKA the new season is starting quite literally as I type this very note, and I am terribly anxious about it.)


End file.
